


We Are Not Pygmalion and Galatea

by DiazTuna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Actresses AU, Broadway AU, F/F, It's a weird Julie Andrews/Audrey Hepburn AU, it's all very meta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiazTuna/pseuds/DiazTuna
Summary: Emma Swan is a newly discovered talent chosen to play the iconic role of Eliza Doolittle in the upcoming film revival. Regina Mills is a Broadway giant. The problem? She is supposed to teach Emma Swan how to perform the role she made famous. And they cannot stand each other.Or an AU loosely based on Hollywood history.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan
Comments: 37
Kudos: 110





	1. In My Own Little Corner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rexinasofia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexinasofia/gifts), [timetravelmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelmagic/gifts).



> There will be real life details scattered into the story. If you pick up Julie Andrews/Patti Lupone/Karen Olivo with a dash of Liz Taylor from Regina that is no accident. If you see Amy Adams AND Julie Andrews in Emma...also not an accident! This is loosely based on the history of the My Fair Lady Movie, where Audrey Hepburn was cast instead of Julie Andrews. 
> 
> I will update as I write the chapters!

Emma hates the glass slippers. Well, plastic slippers. This rigid type that makes her toes itch and cut into the back of her ankle. They are her Enchanted Dinner and Show issued pumps, the ones Emma wears for the three days she plays the lead and is not working a server shift. The diner is just off the tourist track where the streets of Boston are still lined with cobbled stone. People like the illusion and it being sold for thirty-five ninety-nine with refills doesn’t hurt either. _Once upon a time..._ is written on a beam above the main entrance. Emma is pretty sure the place is a mish-mash of historical inaccuracies but the Enchanted Forest isn’t in the business of authenticity. Everything here is plastic. The beanstalk, the pumpkins. The talking mice. Her fairy godmother’s wand. 

And of course. _Cinderella’s slippers._ Emma sprays the inside of the pumps with deodorant and disinfectant and settles at what barely counts as a vanity. The light-bulb she uses to do her make-up is a little too yellow but it’s enough. To carefully line her eyes and make them stand-out under all the fake soot she’s applying to her face. Give Cinderella her name. Emma plugs in her curling iron and hits play on her phone. It’s almost her favorite part of the night, getting ready for the show as she half-watches a bootleg of My Fair Lady on her phone. The camera is shaky sometimes and the zoom loses clarity but even then it fills her entire chest with electricity. It makes her spine straighter. 

Emma listens carefully for the change in the music, the melody that she has memorized down to its notes. That moment when Regina Mills begins to sing. Her heart. It beats just a little faster with the distinct ring of her voice and the Bronx accent she weaves into the lines. Every night Emma comes close to giving herself a burn because Regina Mills is _just_ that good. She makes it sound and look so easy. It’s anything but. She knows that. Controlling her breathing, the inflection of her voice. The violin and drums to the old lyrics demand Emma’s attention. Bring it to the flow of Regina Mills’ footwork, matching the dips of the music. Her Eliza is funny. Lost but not naive. And so, so full of life. So complete. Not even the low quality of the audio can hide her pitch. Perfect. Emma watches, enthralled every time Eliza shrugs her shoulders and playfully snaps her fingers. 

Until the curling iron hits her temple and sends a shock down her neck. 

“Ow, fuck.” She hisses through her teeth. “Every damn time.”

“Already in character?” Ruby asks as she knocks on the door. 

“Five minutes?” Emma shakes her head and checks Cinderella’s grey skirts. 

“Six.” She sighs and then tries to smile. “Thought I’d give you a heads up. Snooze fest out there.” 

“Wednesdays.” 

“Thank God it’s your shift tonight and not Aurora’s. We need those tips.” She says knocking on the door again. “Now it’s five minutes.” 

The Enchanted Forest audience is fine most nights but Emma thinks they need to re-think their liquor policy. More often than not a flash will go off at one of the tables. And she has to try her hardest to keep her eyes open. Sometimes there will be a red-faced old lady with purple hair shouting at Anastasia and Drizella. On those occasions they try to diffuse it with a joke. Work an ad-libbed line just for the old lady. A boring crowd just means a little more work. Or a _lot_ of work judging from their non-reaction to Cinderella’s entrance. Most of them are yawning or too busy fiddling with their phones. 

Fine. Emma can do this and get those tips too. Anastasia and Drizella throw their dirty clothes at her and she acts as if she is going to fall over. Makes her smiles painful and plays with the tone of her lines. Give Cinderella a little more bite than people expect. The old ladies and the little girls up front are the first ones to respond. By the time Emma is falling into a rocking chair by the fire she knows she has them. The old ladies, the kids, the bored husbands, the tired wives. She rolls her eyes as the step-sisters go up the stairs and rests her hand on her chin.

“Can you believe those two?” She asks the audience with a sigh. “Couple of hens.” 

It’s always a little magical. To get them to laugh. It’s what first attracted her to stage work, getting _something_ right. Emma lies back against the chair and takes a deep breath. This is it, the make or break moment of every performance. Her favorite moment of the night. 

“I’m as a mild and meek as a mouse,” Emma sings with something like a sad irony. “When I hear a command I obey. But I know a spot in my house where no one can stand in my way.” 

For this song she does not need to look far for inspiration. To know what it was like to hide away in a corner and dream of another life. A better life where she mattered. Emma loves Cinderella for it, for imagining new continents while sitting on a rocking chair. Filling whatever precious seconds she got to herself with adventure. Mermaids and queens. Emma doesn’t know if she ever dreamed of those things. If she ever went so far. She finishes her song a little teary-eyed and clears her throat as Cinderella. Sighs into another smile.

The room is quiet, all eyes are on her. Ruby winks at her as she refills someone’s glass. The rest of the act will be a breeze of dances and laughs. Of evil stepmothers getting what they deserve and fairy godmothers granting wishes. By the end of it Emma’s throat aches and her back is soaked in sweat. Good work. Even if it’s all plastic and it gives her blisters around her heels. Emma gets to do this for a living. It’s more than she hoped for when she signed up for that class at a community theater all those years ago. 

“Aurora left you some of her special herbal tea.” Ruby tells her as she hands her a towel. “Something with rose water. I can’t remember.”

“Uh, cool.” Her throat _does_ ache for something warm but not for one of Aurora's experiments. “I...that’s great.”

“Don’t worry, I dumped it down the drain. She’ll never know.” Her lips curl into a smirk, like Ruby can’t help herself anymore. “Also, you got a real important visitor in your dressing room.”

“Me? I got a visitor.” Her skin is sticky from the sweat and glitter of the third act. “I don’t even have a dressing room.”

“Em, I’m serious.” 

“Sure, OK.” Emma quirks her brow and shakes her head. “Just save me a burger and some fries?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Ruby looks at her like you would a stubborn fly before walking away. 

Maybe Emma is curious now and hurries her steps to the converted supplies closet that happens to be hers for tonight. She rubs her face one last time, her heart beating annoyingly fast. Emma couldn’t say who she expects to find when she opens the door. But it isn’t the dark haired stranger that has an oddly familiar face. 

“Emma!” The woman says like she does know her. Clasping her hands together and smiling so broadly. Pretending that the walls aren’t closing in on her as she stands.

“Hi?” 

For a moment Emma thinks they must have met. But taking another look at her she decides that’s impossible. The woman has a pixie cut and teeth that are too white and straight. If there's one thing Emma learned growing up it was the smell and look of money. And this woman has it.

“I hope you don’t mind, Ruby said I could wait back here.” 

“Yeah, that’s alright.” It’s a struggle to keep her distance. “ I’m sorry, I don’t wanna be rude but who are…”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me!” She stretches her hand. This is a woman who is used to people knowing who she is. “I’m Mary Margaret Blanchard.” 

_Blanchard._ The name rings a bell but Emma still can’t place her but she nods like she does anyway. 

“I’m with my fiancé on a little weekend getaway and we just had to step into this place! And you blew us away!” 

“Thanks, that’s really kind of you.” She scratches at the back of her neck, unsure of just what is needed from her. 

“Oh but it’s the truth! It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone make a character theirs like that! You were funny at the right times. Just a bit sad. You were _perfect_.” There is an honest and hopeful look in her. It’s like Mary Margaret is determined to be believed. “Who represents you?”

Emma takes a second to process the question and another to throw her head back and laugh. 

“Tim at the ticket stall. He schedules all my shifts.” 

“And you’ve never auditioned for Boston theatre?”

The shock on Mary Margaret’s face makes self-aware in a way Emma isn’t used to. Clearly she must see something in her because of the implied question. _What is Emma doing here?_

“No, not really.” She shrugs her shoulders, not wanting to dwell on an answer for too long. “I..uh..never got around to it.” 

Mary Margaret says nothing for a moment. Just seems to inspect from her head to toe before she breaks out into a smile. As if she were sizing her up for a brand new dress. Turn those plastic slippers pinching her feet into real glass. 

“How do you feel about auditioning for a movie?” 

* * *

Regina has a throbbing headache. Which means she has to work at keeping her focus during rehearsal. Be vigilant of her r’s and vowels for when she is speaking as Maggie the Cat. _Little no neck monsters!_ She shrieks and she feels that a vein is about to pop. It’s irking her to be off like this. Regina has come to be known to always give every part, down to its smallest details, her full attention. This production needs it, more than the others. It needs her to dig that sense of claustrophobia and desperation. Into every insecurity, every mask they ever put on. Regina and everyone else in the cast have to play it off each other. To come close to exploding, to let their ugliness show for each other and the audience. And the damn headache is ruining that. Whispers of this pain began this morning when _that_ notification popped up on her screen.

**_Long Delayed Production of “My Fair Lady” Finds its Eliza Doolittle. --Studio said to have found the perfect fit for the iconic role. The film will be adapting the updated Broadway revival that starred stage giant Regina Mills._ **

It was not the news itself. Regina had been expecting something like it since she heard the studio wanted to put those movie rights to good use again. She’d also known they wouldn’t ask her to reprise her role as Eliza from the moment the rumor mill started spinning. Regina could never want it anyway. What is driving her crazy is that her phone has not stopped _pinging_ with messages from people offering condolences as if someone had died. She can certainly do without her mother calling twice every hour for the past nine hours. 

“I think we might need to rethink some choices for that final scene.” Sabine tells them with a furrowed brow. “If we’re going with the original ending, it has to land. And we aren’t there yet.” 

“Just tell me what to do.” Regina says, rubbing her temples. 

Sabine knows better than to be offended by her curtness. Her friend and director shakes her head at her and looks at her notes. She needs this to work just as much as Regina does. They trust each other to push each other to find that perfect execution of a scene. 

“I need to think about it.” Sabine says with a sigh. "Maybe it’s about how it’s all fitting together. Either way, we’ll hammer it out tomorrow.” 

Raul, the Brick to her Maggie, approaches her with a sheepish smile. His shoulders are up and he runs a hand through his oiled hair. It’s pity. Regina might have only been rehearsing with him for a week but she can read his expression well enough. 

“Hey,” He begins. “Heard about the movie. Man, those _bastards.”_

“It’s fine.” Regina pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“How can you say that? Regina, that movie is only happening because of what you did with that role--”

Regina has half a mind to tell him to go fetch his boyfriend and not say whatever he is about to say. Because he has no idea what he is talking about and he should not pretend that he does.

“I said it’s fine, Raul.” She does not smile to give this the air of finality it deserves. 

“Sorry.” He replies just slightly hurt but Regina cannot bring herself to care. 

The smile she gives him comes off more like a grimace, of that Regina is sure. But all she wants at this point get her purse and take the Q train home. Regina should linger in the studio with the rest of the cast, have a skirt remeasured or let Jacinda take another polaroid of her in costume. Not today. When it is six p.m. on a Friday night with her headache evolving into a migraine. And there is an eager four year old waiting at home. She slips into her street shoes and heavy coat before heading for the elevator. Regina closes her eyes as she focuses on the sounds of the studio behind her. The steps, someone striking a key in the piano. Someone else being roped into performing a song that isn't from their show. 

This tranquility cannot not last very long. The studio door opens and closes abruptly. Hurried steps are approaching Regina and the elevator is not here yet. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Jacinda tells her as she holds out her phone. “I have no idea how she got my number. And I even tried telling her I don’t know who you are. Twice.”

Regina takes a deep breath and steadies herself against a wall. She knows who it is. The only person it could be. 

“That’s alright. I can handle her.” She says taking the phone from her friend’s hand. “Hello mother.” 

“The lengths you make me go to, Regina.” Her mother must be sipping on her favorite brandy. “Anyone would think that a daughter would pick up the phone on the first ring.”

“I have busy days. You know that.” 

“Yes, I know that better than anyone.” 

“Mother, if this is about fighting for the Eliza role I really do not have any interest in discussing it--”

“Please, I am done wasting my breath on you. You are a lost cause.” It’s bitter, it’s always bitter where mother is concerned. “We both know you threw your one shot away quite spectacularly.” 

“Then what is this about?” Her heart is her throat, as if Regina were a teenager afraid of the coming punishment. 

“I got a call from Leo Blanchard.” The name alone makes her pulse run scared. “His daughter is at the helm of the movie--”

“I _thought_ you said this wasn’t about the Eliza role.” It comes with a hiss and Jacinda squeezes her shoulder in support.

“You might have burned all your bridges, Regina. That does not mean I have.” Another sip of her brandy. “Mary Margaret needs you to couch her Eliza. The girl is wet behind the ears apparently and needs polishing.” 

“Mother, I don’t have time for this. I’m in rehearsals and opening in fifty days, I--”

“Yes. That politically correct project.” Mother laughs into the phone, her accent slipping with the alcohol. “They’re all the rage now.”

Count down from five. Count down from five, Regina repeats in her mind. With everything aching, with her ears about to burst. She will not take mother’s bait, will not explain that what she is doing is important. To people like her. Those things don’t matter to Cora Mills and she isn’t getting the best of her. 

“You can’t expect me to drop everything because you owe Leo Blanchard.” She says through her teeth. “I’ve got a son now and--”

“Watch your tongue, girl.” Her voice is sharp, Regina feels the urge to check herself for wounds. “You will work this into your schedule. You will do as you’re told and take that check. For whatever amount it is. Do you understand me?”

Regina stands there, feeling as she had ten years ago. When mother had struck her across her face. She says nothing because the past hangs over them like this: Like it always will. 

“This is the least you can do to repay me.” There is a clink of ice at the other end, some things never change. “You’re meeting Mary Margaret’s girl tomorrow. Nine AM sharp. I’ll send you the address.” 

“Fine.” 

The elevator’s bells dings as Jacinda gives her shoulder another squeeze. The urgency for the day to be over has vanished. Only her growing migraine remains. 

* * *

Usually the smell of tea and coffee is enough to open her appetite. Any other day she would be appreciating this bakery. The fresh fruit on the pastries and the warmth of the yellow lighting inside. If it were any other day she would indulge in a buttery pastry but that will prove impossible today. Regina takes a sip of her coffee and lets the bitterness roll on her tongue. This is only the first meeting and it is already a major disruption in her life. Saturdays are Henry’s, they begin with him crawling into her bed. Poking and kissing her cheeks until she opens one eye and agrees to waffles. The morning leads them into prayers and followed by the openness of the park. A puppet show or fairy tale hour at the library. Now she only has him on video call, one he threw a tantrum over according to his nanny. 

“But mama _why_?” Henry whines on her screen. Upset at having his day so rudely stolen from him. 

“Carino, I told you last night.” Regina tells him as gently as she can. “I am doing something for your grandmother. Remember? We can catch a movie this afternoon.” 

“I _don’t_ want a movie!” He cries, furious and red in the face. 

At least one of them is allowed to show how upset they are, she thinks. Regina turned off her alarm at six thirty this morning to make breakfast. Let in a sleepy Soledad and kiss her son goodbye as his bony arms wrapped around her neck and refused to let go. 

Regina sighs and clears her throat. He may have a point but he is still misbehaving. And Henry is still her son. The temper proves it. 

“Henry, I need you to breathe right now. Can you do that, mi amor?” She looks him in the eye as much as she can. 

He shakes his head and crosses his arms. But then Soledad whispers something against his hair and he seems to deflate. And he finally takes that deep breath.

“Good boy.” Regina says. “Will you keep being a good boy for Soledad?”

“OK.” Henry rubs at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “When are you coming back?”

“Soon.” She replies with a laugh. “I love you.” 

“Love you, mama.” Henry smiles and hangs up before Soledad can pick up the phone. 

_Soon._ Five minutes past nine. 

Five more minutes added to this ridiculous meeting is over. Mary Margaret Blanchard’s find should be here by now. _Emma Swan._ The address for this Brooklyn bakery had followed her name. No photo. But she can only imagine what the girl must look like. Some clone of Mary Margaret’s. Big doe eyes and ivory white skin. That is the only way the movie would work, of course. White wash the performance they all had worked so hard to ring true. They were a flawless cast and crew. They ran like the parts in a clock. Because they knew that one slip, one hair out of place. One voice that was a little too overworked would have them eaten alive by critics. Too brown, too political, and not enough artistic merit. Of course the Blanchards would take it all and scrub the character away from it. And Regina isn’t above hating Emma Swan on principle. 

She has some idea who this woman could be. A friend of a friend of Mary Margaret’s. Carrying on with the grand tradition of Hollywood nepotism. Emma Swan. Must be some name she gave herself to hide her lack of merit. It must be it. If Regina cared more she could use this time to do a quick search and sit here. Steaming in her vindication. But she does _not_ care. She only wants this arrangement to be over and to go back to her life.

Nine fifteen. Regina can also hate Emma Swan for being late. 

* * *

Nine-thirty.. Emma can be a dork and sit at the bakery for fifteen minutes waiting for Regina Mills to arrive. _Regina Mills._ She keeps repeating that name over and over in her head. It doesn’t feel real. But nothing that has happened over the past month feels real. There had been a Zoom audition Mary Margaret set up. A director that hadn’t looked too convinced but had given her a shot anyway. That has been a recurring theme these days. Those skeptical glances, even as contracts and terms were drafted. Emma can’t even remember what percentage she agreed to give her agent and manager. She keeps getting the names of the producers mixed up. Brad, Tim. James. Jane, Jean. Sarah, Kathleen. Even now their faces kind of blur together but they had all agreed to Emma. Under one condition. That she be “prepped” by Regina Mills. 

Her breath freezes as she walks the final blocks to the place. It is not secret that everyone is only considering her because Mary Margaret is so sure Emma is destined to play Eliza Doolittle. The size of the shoes she has to fill keeps her up at night. The memory of the score, of every detail she knows about Regina Mills’ Eliza. The defiant smiles, the outrage. The pitch of her voice. Emma wonders about her own voice, what she will have to say about her. This isn’t something she ever dreamed about. Too impossible for the likes of Emma Swan. And it still feels ridiculous. Unlikely. Stupidly impossible. 

Nine-forty. The bakery is just at the end of the street. There is also another fact that she is trying to close her eyes to. That Regina Mills is _stunning._ And an out and proud lesbian, Mary Margaret smiled as she said it. It had been part of her reassurances that no, Regina Mills does not and would not resent Emma taking over her role. It’s still not clear to her why that was supposed to make her feel better. 

“She lives her authentic life.” She had told Emma last night. “And she is so successful in it.” 

There had been an undercurrent to her voice. Like the gentleness of a lie, a compliment she hadn’t meant. It told Emma not to press, not to ask too many questions. 

Nine forty-five. Tino’s Bakery. Emma takes a deep breath and checks her reflection on the glass door. Lucky red leather jacket and her best blouse under it. She’d gotten up early to re-do her curls and rethink her eye-liner at the last second. Good enough. It has to be. It’s her lucky jacket, after all. Worn despite the freezing cold outside. The smell of fresh coffee immediately overtakes her when she opens the door. It’s a place she wouldn’t have been able to afford in Boston. With the lighting just for the pastries and freshly baked bread. Her mouth waters and her empty stomach protests. Maybe it’s a mistake to order before her meeting but she’ll be kicking herself later. When her gut is loud and embarrassingly angry in the presence of Regina Mills. She decides for a large black coffee and a bear claw for a price that _still_ makes her jaw drop. 

The little plastic order number is safely in her palm and she is busy looking for a place to sit when Emma spots her. At the back. Brow knitting in the middle and furiously clutching her phone. Regina Mills on a Saturday morning. Seemingly fuming at the idea of sitting there. That distinct feeling of having fucked up creeps up her spine. All she can do is take another deep breath and walk over there. Try to keep herself in one piece as she approaches who literally every article calls "Broadway's youngest legend". _Shit._

“Hi.” Emma says, pressing the plastic number against her palm. _Stunning._ Stupidly beautiful. Regina Mills. In the flesh. In all black, immaculate. “I hope you’re not waiting for me?”

Dark eyes harden into a glare and rake all over her in a way Emma is growing accustomed to. 

“You cannot be serious.” She says, the deep red of her lips becomes a sneer. “Tell me you’re here to refill my coffee or offer me the house specials.” 

“Uuuh. No.” It’s the deepest cut she has received since this whole thing began. She would fall apart if weren't for the anger brewing in her belly. “I’m Emma Swan. We’re supposed to--”

“Late is what you are.” Regina Mills stands up and slips into her coat and scarf. “And a waste of my morning.” 

Mary Margaret had warned her that Regina Mills was difficult. Emma assumed she had been exaggerating, she has seen Mary Margaret around less than cheerful waiters. She thought maybe _whatever_ history they have was coloring Mary Margaret's idea of Regina Mills. It wouldn't be out of place too to catalogue someone who is "out and proud" as aggressive. Maybe Emma that small place that holds onto illusions and hopes gets a little smaller as she stands here. 

“Late? The meeting was scheduled for ten.” If it’s only a misunderstanding maybe this is still workable. Maybe. “You aren’t leaving--”

“Oh there you are. One large black coffee and a bear claw.” The server interrupts them with a smile. Completely unaware, he sets down a mug and saucer on the table and takes the number off her hand. Still completely unaware that he just screwed her over. Instinctively Emma knows that this is the worst offense in the book. If there were such a thing. That sharp glare turns into a deep scowl on Regina Mills’ face. 

“You _stopped_ to order?!” 

“I thought...the meeting was at ten. I'm sorry, I... “ Emma scratches the back of her neck, not even sure of what she is about to say. “Look, maybe your people wrote it down wrong or something. It’s all--”

“My ‘people’?” A vein in her forehead becomes dangerously defined. Like it's threatening to split her head in half and take Emma with it. “I don’t have people. Do not mistake me with one of your Hollywood brats.” 

It could be how she said the words. Or that what Regina Mills thought of her seemed to mean everything to her just minutes ago. That this is the best argument for never meeting your heroes. But Emma has to give back as bad as she is getting it. Broadway legend or not. 

“Jesus fucking Christ lady, it was an honest mistake.” It’s her turn to narrow her eyes and tighten her hands into fists. “Can’t you just let it go?” 

Regina Mills steps closer, as if Emma were prey. Dark eyes find her lips, just for a moment and then dig into the green of her own. Her blood is rushing all over her, reaching her ears like a hammer. Angrily beating away at any other sound. Emma can’t see anything, hear anything that isn’t the woman in front of her. 

“Take this as your first lesson, Miss Swan.” She tells Emma, her shoulder grazing hers as she walks past her. 

“Which is?”

“I do not let anything go.” 

Her heels click on the wooden floor and Emma cannot do anything but watch her leave. And be sure of what she would have thought impossible.

She _hates_ Regina Mills. 

  
  
  
  



	2. She Loves Me (Not)

There is an itch at the back of her throat. Like the tip of a feather that is set on making her job harder. But Regina is set on mimicking the voice needed for the part. It is her most important role yet. The old beggar woman in Henry’s story book. Reading is supposed to encourage him to sleep, along with the tea and warm milk she brewed him. It is never of any use, her son always hangs on to her every word. As if he might not get more and Regina does not have it in her to refuse him. 

“Ah, but Your Highness, I am only your humble servant.” She croaks as she puts her hand to her chest. “Would you not spare a kindness?” 

“Mama, I don’t like it.” Henry says scrunching up his nose. “It’s weird.” 

“You don’t like the story?”

“The voice.” 

He said it so seriously that Regina can’t help but lie back against her chair and laugh. Her son, her toughest critic. She kisses his temple and is relieved that her throat will get some rest. Regina carries on with the story. Of a cruel prince learning what unkindness does to others as a snow fox. When she first filled out the paperwork for adoption Regina thought of these moments in particular. Building on what little foundation she had for love. There is never a moment with her son she takes for granted. 

“Can I come with you tomorrow?” Henry asks as he sinks into his pillow. 

“What’s the matter, cariño?” Regina parts his hair with her fingers. “Aren’t you excited to show Soledad your watercolors?” 

He shakes his head and something twists in her gut. She remembers her mother’s voice. _Ese niño después no se te va a despegar, Regina._ A smile is what she uses to chase off those thoughts.

“What if me and Soledad go with you?” Henry closes one eye and fiddles with his fingers. Like when he is negotiating a piece of lettuce on his plate. “You say it’s fun when I come with you!”

“It always is, mi vida.” Regina smiles again and tucks his stuffed dinosaur under his arm. “But we can save that for some other day, perhaps. When my day doesn’t start so early.”

“Hmm. OK.” He deflates but the kiss on his forehead seems to make up for it. “Good night, mama.” 

An eight A.M pointless session means that her day actually starts at five thirty. Now that she is out of Henry’s room, she lets the scowl settle on her face. The memory of Saturday morning and _everything_ related to Emma Swan returns to plague her. Cider. She needs warm cider if her body is going to uncoil before heading to bed. 

Regina sets a half liter to warm up on the stove as she goes through her call log and emails. She expected at least several missed calls from mother and a dozen messages. Emma Swan surely would have reported back to Mary Margaret right after she’d stormed out. Emma Swan who was nothing and everything Regina expected. Those green eyes could have been full of that artificial saccharine of the hills of Los Angeles. But something entirely different had lined them. Regina had not given it much thought. Not beyond the resolute dislike, disapproval and resentment she felt towards the woman. And mother had called her _girl._ There was nothing girl-like about her. Not her leather jacket and the way she’d stood. Who does she think she is?

All Regina currently has on Emma Swan is the studio room and a time. Her fingers are eager to find out more. Some fifteen minutes of sleuthing would not count as interest. Especially not if she sips her cider as a cooking show plays in the background. _Emma Swan. My Fair Lady._ She types in and scans the first couple of articles that come up. **_Newcomer Emma Swan! Fresh Face! Spectacular Find!_ ** The epithets make her want to barf and hardly provide any relevant information. It points to studio control to Regina. The Blanchards extending their influence and lawyers and that alone is interesting. Not Emma Swan. Her IMDB profile is empty save for one _Eliza Doolittle (announced)_ credit. A black and white headshot crowns the page which means there are no available photos to be used. Interesting. Suspicious. 

“You want that roux to get nice and dark. Not burn!” The chef on her TV makes Regina blink away from her screen. “You need a careful eye! Keep stirring, never move away from the pan.” 

The clatter and noise they make about cooking gives her pause. She does not care about Emma Swan or the movie. But. On the other hand, Regina still has her SAG-AFTRA membership which means she can search for current members. Before overthinking her motive she logs in and types in _Emma Swan_ into the search box. Many Emmas. Some Swanns. But never an Emma Swan. This must be costing the studio a pretty penny, to hire someone outside the guild. It also means that Mary Margaret is staking her reputation on her. Regina’s own involvement suddenly makes more sense, she is insurance. There to indirectly protect Mary Margaret’s name in Hollywood. That, however, does nothing to answer Regina’s only pressing question. 

Just who the hell is this woman?

* * *

In a weird kind of way nothing much has changed about her nights. In the whirlwind of movie contracts and studio heads and Regina fucking Mills she is still having a late dinner alone. She never thought she’d come to savor these moments. Where she can focus on the sound of the cars driving through potholes and not smiling through bites of her food. Just her, the world’s largest Rueben and a papaya shake. Technically she has a studio allowance to pay for every expense, Mary Margaret and her agent saw to that. But some nights Emma uses her old tip money because she is afraid. Use too much of that allowance, write up too many things and they might reconsider her. 

If they aren’t already reconsidering. By now they should have heard from Regina Mills. Something about Emma being unworkable, untrainable. Not that the woman actually _knows_ that. But it’s all the evidence they would need to boot her off the project. Being stranded in that bakery with her coffee and bearclaw had hurt like a motherfucker. She’d chugged down her order and walked in the cold for two hours. Thinking that would have numbed the feeling of having been metaphorically slapped in the face by someone she had admired for so long. Stupid. Emma felt stupid. For believing she could do this. For taking Mary Margaret’s deal. At the end of the night those glass slippers will always be plastic. 

Emma pulls out her phone from her pocket and decides to text Ruby. She’d been so happy for her, taken her out to a bar to celebrate. Her treat. It’s easy to miss her. And maybe. Emma will be back in that supplies’ closet before she can blink. 

_Hey Rubes_

Five minutes pass before her phone buzzes in short bursts and Emma can check it like her life depended on it.

_Emma!!_

_How r u_

_How’s the Hollywood life???_

_Tell me everything!_

_Who is gay_

It makes her laugh and something inside her chest moves. No one’s ever been so excited to hear from her before. But then again. Emma supposes she never got the chance to make enough of an impression on anyone. First it was the system moving her from home to home. School passed through her, barely got a GED out of it. Then Emma had never lingered anywhere out of choice. Working in kitchens and stock rooms. The odd princess at a kid’s birthday party. It was never too long until she felt odd in her skin, that’d been the appeal of being up on stage. Trying on a different one every time. See if that one fit. There was never one she liked best. One she should keep and stay in one place. In the end she was always back to being Emma Swan and packing a bag. 

Boston was the longest she had stayed anywhere. Where she’d actually known people. Had drinks every once in a while. She had a lease and two roommates. It had been more than she had ever allowed herself to have. Emma considers telling Ruby the truth for a moment. But no one wants to hear that. Hell, Emma would roll her eyes at her so-called problems. It’d feel ridiculous to admit that Emma has been a disappointment so far. To say that her old instinct to run before she is kicked out is back again. 

_Good! Tons of free stuff_

_Rich ppl are ridiculous_

_No idea who’s gay or not though_

_Like genuinely can’t tell lmao_

Ruby doesn’t reply, not even when she gives it ten minutes. Emma checks the time. Eight-thirty on a Sunday, the busiest night for the diner. She would be up on stage right now, with fake soot on her face and smiling as Cinderella. Emma gets another papaya shake and tries not to dwell on the would-have-beens of her life. Instead she watches raindrops race to the bottom of the window pane. Clears her throat, aware that the cold milk in the shake isn’t doing her any favors. 

Maybe she is getting sick. Her voice will be gone and they’ll delay production. Or give her the boot. Whatever. Emma can pretend this whole month was a fever dream. Her phone buzzes again but it’s constant and long. There is only one person who would call her.

“Hi.” Emma says a little too cheerfully. 

“Hey, sweetie.” Mary Margaret always greets her like she is so much older than Emma. “How did your first meeting go yesterday?” 

Huh. Emma takes another slurp from her shake as she thinks of her answer. Regina Mills hadn’t made a call and tried to sink her. There is a big possibility she doesn’t find Emma relevant enough to bother but it’s _something._ And she will take that something. 

“Uh, it went alright.” 

“She was icy, wasn’t she?.” Emma can hear the cringe on Mary Margaret’s voice. “My assistant just told me she accidentally gave you the wrong time.” 

“She was a little, yeah. Nothing I couldn’t handle though.” She lies, knowing it’s the only thing she can do. 

“Good! Glad to hear it!” The relief in her voice is too obvious. “You should be getting the details for your sessions soon but I’ll walk you through them anyway.” 

Emma turns the phone away from her face and sucks in a breath. She can do this. She is doing this. 

“OK...”

“I double checked the time, don’t worry.” Her voice sounds so unconcerned about this. “Eight o’clock at the New 42nd Street Studios, you really can’t miss it. You’ll be in Studio 2A.”

“Do they even open that early?” Emma asks as she commits the information to memory. 

“We made a special arrangement to fit Regina’s work schedule.” 

_Great._ She mouths a curse and holds in a sigh. That is sure to play out beautifully tomorrow morning. An already pissed off Regina Mills up earlier than she would have been.

“That’s… awesome. Looking forward to it.” 

Mary Margaret laughs and it makes Emma relax just a little bit. Let out that sigh and laugh too. 

“You’ll do great, Emma. I know you will.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I think you should try believing it too.” 

This is what continues to boggle her mind. This blind faith Mary Margaret has in her, how unshaken it is. When they first met with producers she had brushed off their comments as old guard concerns. Nothing more. After all, the director had been skeptical at first and Emma had won him over. So much of this feels undeserved. The hotel room. The expenses. Mary Margaret’s calls. Her assistants who are always making sure Emma has everything she needs. One night the clock might strike midnight on her. 

“I’ll try my best. Bye.” 

It is now less than twelve hours until she faces Regina Mills again. And Emma just had a thought. A petty one but one that makes her smile before taking another bite of her sandwich. 

* * *

It is still dark out on the streets. The orange of the streetlights has not died down and the pavement is wet from the rain they had last night. The cold crystallizes on her lips and the tip of her nose. Regina wishes she were the type of person who could enjoy it. Walking the streets so early to the subway thinking of the cup of coffee she will get soon. But the truth is she would much rather have that extra hour of sleep. Time enough to stretch and order her thoughts. Emma Swan has robbed her of that, once again. Regina had gotten a lengthy contract in her email last night. The wording implied they had done Regina a _favor_ , scheduling these damn tutoring lessons early in the morning as to avoid “clashing with Ms. Mills’s other contractual obligations”. They are to last five weeks. 

By the time she is on the train she is steaming inside her coat. There had also been a schedule attached to the email, prepared by some acting coach Regina does not recognize. The audacity to include pointers to “warm up” before any singing. As if she could ever forget. There had even been suggested songs that would surely “work those vocal muscles for Emma”. Jackass. Five weeks. Regina has to last five weeks of dark early morning. By the time she is avoiding the crowd at the 42nd street station Regina hopes that this deal at least tips the balance in her favor with mother. That the day where she can stand her ground and say no is coming closer. A fool’s hope. 

The security guard at the studio seems to be unfazed and smiles at her just the same. 

“Good Morning, Don Julio.” She says, sucking in a breath.

“Morning, Miss Mills.” He smiles at her. “Que temprano está aquí.”

“Don’t you start with me.” Regina rolls her eyes and he throws his head back and laughs. 

This is a small mercy. Regina only needs to go up three floors for her Cat rehearsal after _this_ is over. She doubts mother negotiated that for her. It must have been some lucky coincidence. Regina takes the stairs to give herself an extra minute to breathe. It’s five past eight, she can spare the minutes. Emma Swan owes her at least an hour of lost time and it’s doubtful she beat her to the studio. Regina cracks her neck and takes a deep breath as she makes her way to studio 2A. The posting on the door reveals the truth by way of code “George Bernard Shaw rehearsal”. It’s not even clever. She pulls the door open as she removes her scarf and finds a smug looking Emma Swan stretching at the other end of the room. 

“Hey, I thought we started at eight sharp.” This woman dares to smile as she speaks. Dares to look relaxed in a black turtleneck and jeans that must be cutting her circulation. 

It is still too early to deal with _this cerota._ An irritating blonde who is most definitely a morning person. 

“I’m sorry you had to wait a whole six minutes, Miss Swan.” Regina feels a muscle at the back of her neck tightening up. 

“It’s a little more than that. Got here early,” Emma Swan locks her eyes with hers. “Isn’t that what everyone does for rehearsal?” 

Regina could kill her. She could tear those checks from the Blanchards and finally burn that bridge with her mother. But she bites down that urge and only smiles the most hostile smile she can. 

“I suggest you invest in a watch if you’re having this much trouble with time.” 

“Is that your second lesson?” The way her eyes rake over her figure ignites something at the bottom Regina’s belly. “Get a watch when my first paycheck hasn’t even cleared?”

“I’m not your broker.” 

Everything about this woman screams unearned confidence, she stands a little too tall. Hands on her hips and unnecessarily flexing her muscles. A brute show of strength. Emma Swan needs to be put in her place. Returned to whatever discard pile of models Mary Margaret Blanchad salvaged her from.

“No, you’re just Broadway Legend Regina Mills.” 

Electricity. Regina feels it at her fingertips, sizzling at her forehead. This woman doesn’t know her. Nothing about her that couldn’t have been gleaned from her Wikipedia page. If she knew her, truly knew, she would know better than to throw that in her face. Gringa mierdera. 

“An astute observation,” She keeps her teeth bare. “The wit you’d expect from…”

“A Hollywood brat like me?” Emma Swan asks with a shit-grin on her face. As if she is holding something over Regina’s head. “Now that’s astute…”

“Listen, you--”

“Ladies!” Naveen, the best resident musician, bursts through the door. “You must forgive me. The hour, eh, I was loading up on my caffeine.” 

He seems to be blissfully unaware of the tension currently floating around in the air. But then again every time she has worked with him he seems to be worried about little else but the music and rhythm. 

“Have we warmed up or should I give you some more time…”

“I trust Miss Swan is all warmed by now.” Regina replies, with a pointed look. “With all the extra time she bought herself.” 

“Perfect!” He grins and takes his seat by the piano. “I will confess to having just looked at the plan. I think the sheets have been left for me, no?”

“Uhh…”

At that Regina feels genuine pleasure. At the inadequacy that must be filling Emma Swan now. Watching her shift her weight from one leg to the other, curls her fingers into fists. Understanding must be dawning on her, this is not where she belongs. Regina walks over to the piano and leans against it as if she owns it. 

“How about checking the bench first, dear Naveen?” 

“You mock, Regina. But you would be surprised how often it is not there.” He says as he opens up the bench. “It seems you were right this time.”

He furrows his brow and takes a look at Regina and then back to the sheets. Skepticism lines every feature of his face. 

“These songs? For you?”

“For the purpose of this exercise.” She answers as if she’d bothered to read the rest of the coach’s notes on today’s session. The reality is that in her hubris she had deemed those details unimportant. 

Regina is not about to admit that in Emma Swan’s presence. 

“Come over, closer to us! Emma, right?” Naveen waves her over. “I promise I do not bite. And Regina, only occasionally.” 

He lays a sheet flat on top of the piano and stretches his fingers over the keys. Still ignoring anything outside the notes and keys he is about to play for them. 

“Can you read music?” She asks with her hand on the sheet.

“Yeah. I can read music.” Emma Swan replies, taking the sheet from her. It’s almost petulant, Regina has to contain herself. “Ready when you are, Naveen.” 

The first notes make Regina’s teeth hurt, a melody that she knows will be too sweet. She recognizes it instantly and it tells her all she needs to know about this new vision for Eliza Doolittle. Artificial vanilla. This song can be hers entirely. Regina sees her take a deep breath and glancing her way. The green of her eyes suddenly greener. Nerves, perhaps. 

“Dear friend,” Emma Swan’s face molds into something softer with the music. “I am so sorry about last night, it was a nightmare in every way. But together you and I will laugh at last night someday…”

Her voice. Regina is glad to be leaning against the piano. Biting into her lip, pressing her nails against her palms because of that voice. That belongs to Emma Swan. And only Emma Swan. 

“Ice cream. He brought me ice cream!” The dumbfounded expression on her face is much too genuine. Eyebrows raised, eyes wide with surprise. “Vanilla ice cream! Imagine that!” 

It climbs at the right place and holds the melody. It gives the song the frills it needs, rings through the lyrics. She might lose the key for a few moments but finds it along the way again. A soprano that might have caught anyone’s ear. Shock washes over Regina. Mary Margaret Blanchard might have been right for once in her entire life. It only adds to Regina’s questions about Emma Swan. Who is she that she can sing like this? Transform right before her eyes? Regina is accustomed to talent, to people working hard at their craft. Polishing and sharpening their skill over the years. To be blindsided with an obvious, natural talent is something she has not experienced in a while. Or ever. 

“It’s almost like a dream as strange as it may seem,” Her chest inflates just as readies herself for a smile. Regina cannot look away. “He came to offer me vanilla ICE CREAM!” 

Naveen plays with the keys as Emma Swan’s voice dissolves into and she is laughing along with him. Anyone else would have described her laugh as infectious, anyone else would have joined in. Regina only stands in place. Struck. 

“Well done, well done!” He claps his hands. “What song should we do now?”

Regina realizes that she is supposed to answer and remembers she is meant to be leading this session. She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. Now is not the time to slip and allow Emma Swan to peer into her thoughts. No matter if she is still picking up her jaw off the floor. 

“We are going to do that again.” Regina says as she takes the sheet away from her. “And try not to go off pitch this time.” 

Emma Swan blinks back what seems to be surprise and then bites her lips. As if she is holding herself back. Good. It means hers is a convincing act. 

“Perhaps it might help if you give her the key?” Naveen offers with a shrug and she only hits him with a dark look. “Just a suggestion.” 

“Follow me.” She says, exhaling one last time. 

There is a little bit of wonder reflected in Emma Swan’s expression when Regina begins to work her chords. As Regina’s voice hits the highs in the song and matches Naveen’s keying. It spreads an odd sort of warmth in the back of her neck. It feels sudden and overwhelming, a lot like nerves. Regina dismisses the notion and snaps her fingers every time she hears Emma Swan going off pitch. They couldn’t be nerves. Not with the slight hardness in the other woman’s eyes. And her own desire to match it. It will be five weeks of this. Of singing across this woman who she cannot stand every morning. Who shows little to no consideration for her and seems stubbornly determined to make it clear. She is crass and bolder than she has any right being. That blonde hair is curled in a way that reflects the light, like she is stuck in some seventies art film. It is frustrating, infuriating to be working with her. Because more than anything Regina wishes she could figure her out. For all the mismatched pieces she has of her. 

For that Regina hates her even more. 

* * *

The stage is the largest Emma has ever been on. The lights might as well be melting away her make-up. She looks out onto the empty seats and wonders what it would be like to perform in a place like this. A far cry from the diner and the refills. There is too much room here. Emma doesn’t know whether to turn right or left. And the dress. It’s this Pepto Bismol pink she does not remember agreeing to. It’s tight around her chest, stiff over her sternum. 

“How the hell am I supposed to sing in this thing?” She says and the words carry all over the stage. 

“Why, didn’t you ever learn how to hold your breath?” Regina Mills asks as she comes on-stage. “Yet another thing I am going to have to waste my time on.” 

Hers is a black dress that obviously fits her like a glove. A rich velvet and with an open back Emma has to look away from. The woman looks like a fucking dream in it. God. She hates her guts. 

“ _You_ try wearing this shit,” Emma argues with a curled fist. “See if you can Do-Re-Mi in it!”

“Please.” She laughs, the deep red of her lips is impossible to miss. “I wore a corset on stage for a whole season. Miss Swan, do you--”

“Could you stop? For one damn second?” Air is scarce in Emma’s lungs when she steps closer to her. Really notices the details of her face. The small beauty mark she might have missed earlier. Disgustingly beautiful. “You don’t even know me.”

“What is there to know?” Her teeth are white and bare. “You got lucky. That’s all.” 

“Don’t you think I--”

“And one day, it’s back to being a pumpkin for you.” Regina Mills sings out and twirls until purple smoke engulfs her. “Back, back to your rolling hills.”

“Wait, that’s not me!” Emma sings and her throat aches. “Come back, please!” 

The pink of her dress gets pinker and the fabric swallows until she is falling. Falling and falling. Everything around her changes. The stage becomes the diner and those plastic slippers pinch her feet again. She continues to fall until an incessant beeping is all she can hear. And then it stops. Emma jolts awake. The studio break room. She must have dozed off. The air smells like microwaved food and a lone person stands fixing filling up their water bottle. It must be nearly lunch which means she has been out for at least two hours. Emma could beat herself up over it. Think back to all the times she had worked on three hours of sleep because she couldn’t afford to stop working. But the reality is that she is exhausted. 

It’s Friday. Her throat feels torn to shreds from all the vocal exercises Regina Mills subjects her to. Even her abs hurt because apparently Emma isn’t breathing right and _would she really want that loud intake of breath audible in a recording?_ There had also been an email in her inbox Monday night, a diet plan and exercise routine. Her trainer should contact her next week but for now Emma needs to get used to her routine. Prepared meals have started arriving and all her body has really been craving is cheesy fries. Caffeine has been thrown out the window too and the migraines haven’t been fun. Not to mention that what is left of her energy Emma spends spatting with a certain stage diva. Really. A mid-morning nap is the least of her concerns right now. 

Ten to noon. Emma should take her sad kale salad and her even sadder spinach smoothie somewhere else before the break room gets too crowded. She stretches and gathers her things to go find a corner with a view. It’s easy to wander around this place, to get pulled into each floor with a different type of music. Lines being shouted out and the sound of dancing on wood. Not for the first time Emma imagines what it must be like to really belong here. Not to be on borrowed _everything_ when she comes in every morning. Most of all she imagines what it must be like to not hate and be hated by Regina Mills. 

The memories of her snapping fingers come to mind as Emma climbs up another floor. _Listen and try to keep up_. Her brown eyes seem to get darker every time they sing. Like the sound of Emma’s voice along with hers is torture. Naveen told her not to take it personally. Regina is a perfectionist, just pushing her to be the best version of herself. Ha. Perfectionist. It must be Naveen’s way of saying she’s a breathing and walking nightmare to everyone. If she is like this when nothing is at stake for her Emma cannot imagine what the woman must be like as a co-star. There was that rumor about her stopping mid performance because someone in the audience was on their phone. By the time she is up on the fifth floor and Times Square seems brighter she is amusing herself thinking of the terror Regina Mills must be in the community. 

“Hey, hey!” A guy says as he peeks into the hallway from a studio door. “Where are you going for lunch?”

“Pickin’ up from Pongsri. Why, you want anything?” A woman replies from the elevator. 

“Think you can swing a vegetarian curry for Regina?”

Emma’s ears buzz with the name. Mary Margaret hadn’t said anything about Regina Mills _rehearsing_ in this same building. It makes sense, she supposes. She takes one gross sip from her smoothie and pretends to be uninterested in them. 

“Ugh, that means I’m gonna have to call to update my order. You know how much I hate that!” The woman by the elevator whines but unlocks her phone anyway. “She couldn’t tell me this before?!”

The man shrugs and the winks at the woman. 

“Fine. But she owes me.” 

Vindication sits at the bottom of Emma’s stomach. An actual nightmare of a person. 

When the woman and man are gone she lets curiosity guide the rest of her steps. To the door that only has the word “CAT” slapped on the door. A small cast is spread out on a space that is supposed to be a living room, from what Emma can gather. Her eyes search for the one familiar face. Something more that could prove her theory. She isn’t hard to spot but her expression makes her almost unrecognizable. A genuine smile on lips as another woman plays with her dark hair. Regina Mills laughing as bobby pins are placed in her hair. Someone else comes her way with a paper cup and she leans in to kiss them on the cheek. That vindication at the bottom of her stomach twists and turns into something ugly. Regina Mills isn’t what Emma had wanted her to be. She is the center of that room and everyone is so glad to be in her orbit. 

Emma’s chest grows smaller as she backs away from the door. Hurries down the stairs with her heart beating away in her ears. 

She wishes she could remember how to breathe. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and putting up with my irregular updates! Would love to know what you think!


	3. Somewhere That's Green

The pavement isn’t icy yet even if the day is slowly vanishing away. It reflects blue on the dark waters of the Hudson. The air smells like water and cold as Emma runs past people stopping to take in the view. Two weeks ago that would have been her too. Leaning against the railing, not quite believing it yet. Now Emma runs because her muscles haven’t caught up to her routine. Her calves hurt as she jogs up stairs, her lungs shrink with every breath she takes. The question of when the spell will be lifted is lodged between them. The fiber she stirred into her protein shake makes her whole mouth taste like cardboard. It’s supposed to help make her stronger. And more. Just more. Whatever, _whoever_ she is is just not enough. That much has been made clear. Not good enough to garner so much as a nod from Regina Mills. 

Her chest retracts like ice under boiling water at the thought of her. Her diaphragm expands like _it’s supposed to._ That voice. Regina’s. That stupidly perfect voice rings through Emma’s memory. So clear and without flaw. It strikes her dumb every time the woman so much as warms up. How many times did she listen to her singing before a shift? It used to be a lifeline, that final push. Tonight that voice just makes breathing all that much harder. Emma finds herself with her head between her knees, leaning against the railing. Her endurance is shit. Regina has made sure she knows that. She wants to get a word in. Tell her she sang in front of an audience four days a week. That she has always been about those big powerful bursts. But the painful stretches of her chords mean that Emma hadn’t been at her best then. Hadn’t been giving it her all. 

The thought sinks like a heavy stone at the pit of her stomach. Regina already thinks so little of her. Hates her like she does no one else around her. And really would not give a damn about anything she has to say. It makes her insides turn into knots. It’s lonely in a way Emma thought she had forgotten at sixteen. The air in her chest moves like it has been made into a dagger. She takes a sip of her water and tries to swallow back that knot in her throat that wants to come undone. Suddenly Emma wants nothing more than to crawl into her bed and pass out. No matter how early it is. 

Night washes over the city as she walks back to her hotel. With her muscles cooling down and her frozen nose. The heat from beyond the sliding doors pulls her inside and even the generic soft jazz of the lobby is welcomed. This hotel is the nicest place Emma has ever stayed in. Tile and wood in a herringbone pattern. Air freshener that smells like cinnamon and the front desk staff who know her name and smile. Mary Margaret had apologized over the phone when Emma first arrived. The studio is mindful of the budget and this is an _unforeseen_ expense. She thanked her, twice in the same sentence. Because it’d felt like too much. Maybe Emma shouldn’t have done that. Been so embarrassingly earnest about this whole thing. 

The wood and tile turn into just-vacuumed carpet as Emma shuffles closer to her door. The lock beeps with her card and her knees practically give as she switches on the lights. Empty and clean as it always is. Her half-read book on the nightstand and the cedar furniture with the green and orange cushions. The fresh and pressed sheets on the bed kill her plan of crawling into bed just as she is. Instead Emma slides out of her sneakers and drags herself to the shower. A quick warm one with the almond and coconut body wash she got from the Walgreens around the corner. _Then_ she throws herself on the bed and stares at the white ceiling. If she is lucky she’ll doze off without the TV and she can skip whatever bean heavy hell awaits her in the mini fridge. 

Except. Emma is not so lucky. Her thoughts inevitably circle back to Regina like the tide. It’s Sunday night. She cannot imagine she is somewhere in Manhattan staring up at the drywall on her ceiling. No. Regina Mills is probably swirling expensive wine in a glass and talking about everything that matters in her life. Everyone around must be begging her to sing, to please, please just join them at the piano. She must be kissing people’s cheeks and laughing like she did on Friday. There is no place for Emma in that type of world. All she can do is look in from the outside and hope no one notices she is there. With or without a Hollywood contract that seems to remain a constant in her life. Looking in. She lets the duvet swallow her as she decides it’s time to close her eyes and try to get some rest. 

There is a ping followed by a second and third from her phone. That would be about right. Emma considers ignoring them but it’s so quiet in here that she is unlocking her screen in a few seconds. Two messages from Mary Margaret. 

_Hi sweetheart, check your email!_

_I’m swamped but I’ll be there next week._

_We can have dinner and talk!_

It’s an odd sort of relief that she will get to see Mary Margaret, even if it’s just for a bit. It’d break up the quiet and the echo in it. Emma switches over to her email to find whatever the app has swallowed. It’s a director’s note about a change in vision and logistics, something about the authenticity of the project. Emma reads through the greeting and the paragraph-long explanation and freezes. She locks her phone and sinks face-first into her pillow. There is only one word spinning around in her thought. One word she wishes she could scream out but that would hurt her voice. And she really can’t afford that now.

Fuck. 

* * *

There was something so awful about sweating in the beginning of winter. To have the cotton of her shirt sticking to her but truthfully this is a lesson. Regina should have known better than to accept Zelena’s pick-me ups. Her sister had sent a voice note after she’d explained her Emma Swan entanglement. The thing was half stifled laughter following every second word. _I do mean I do feel for you, cara de mono. I’m sending you dinner as we speak._ Dinner came not long after, with the unassuming and undisclosed shrimp shell sauce. It was uncharacteristic but she ate it without a second thought. Without checking for certification stamps. Regina paid for it throughout the night. Sweating out what was left of the rightfully designated as an alien creature unfit for consumption. Damn her sister. Ten years ago, Regina would have called it intentional. It is credit to their growth that Regina only sent two strongly worded texts. Punctuated with a middle finger. 

Now in the clarity of the morning and balancing her body on the subway Regina can afford to fume over the email she was sent last night. The one that had prompted her rant to Zelena in the first place. The director, some English prestige name, detailed how the production would be shifting to live singing. He had gone into technicalities that were at least half wrong and justifications about creating the most authentic product. Normally Regina would have respected that sentiment but she can spot Oscar bait in the making. The flowers and awards he will get for his creative decision. Mal parido. Their Rex Harrison will get magazine spreads on the homage to old Hollywood and stage talent. Emma Swan, with no credits to her name, Regina does not know what she will get. 

Not when she ends up breathless by the end of their sessions. Raw talent that needs to be polished and refined. That hadn’t been her focus, and Regina _does_ _not_ care. But live singing implies a new set of complications, it means more strain of vocal chords that aren’t experienced enough to sustain that type of work. Especially when the director is infamous for his exhausting number of takes. It’s capricious. Thoughtless. It pushes Regina to feel a smidge of sympathy for the woman. A smidge. No more. Not larger than the frustration she feels at adjusting to new directives. More work on the job she resents having to take in the first place. 

It is Monday morning, after all. The time designated specifically for resentments. Regina walks into the studio ready to be met with a smug smile and a remark on the time. Instead she finds Emma Swan doing the warming up exercises Regina had taught her last week. Brows furrowed, she only nods as Regina discards her coat and scarf. 

“Getting a head start again?” 

“Yeah, I--” She stops herself from wincing. “Thought I’d need it. Considering.” 

“Wonderful new set of instructions,” Regina tells her in the quiet emptiness of the studio. “But that’s just the business.” 

“Right.” Her fingers run nervously through her blonde curls. “Wanna set the key? Before Naveen gets here?” 

“Alright.” 

Swan bites at her lips and curls her hands into fists. She seems subdued, as if the sunlight from the early morning were hitting her differently. There is nothing superficially different about her, exactly. But Regina is trained to pick up on these quirks, however involuntarily. 

After a deep breath the vibrations in her throat travel up to scales. To the dips and peaks necessary to stretch and warm up. Until she settles on a constant F major, the one key she knows that will have to be maintained through all of Eliza Doolittle’s songs. Regina hums until the words she never forgot slip past her tongue and Emma Swan is following after her. Her voice trips, making Regina snap her fingers. It does not earn her the poorly disguised glare that had been common from her last week. Only a resigned nod. Then her voice falls again, it would have been imperceptible to anyone else. And if Regina saw determination in her expression then perhaps she might be able to let it go. Instead it is something akin to defeat. 

“Stop. Stop.” Regina does not care. “We are not doing this.” 

“What?” Swan’s eyes grow wide, her chest seems to be holding her together. 

“I am not giving up my mornings to hear you do a half-assed job.” 

Regina does not care that her eyes turn brittle. Even if it makes her swallow as she fetches her coat and ties her scarf around her neck. But she will be damned if she does subpar work. Regardless of who is involved. 

“What exactly are you waiting for? An invitation?”

“You want me to come with you?” Her shoulders drop just as her eyes get lighter. She uncurls her fingers in a big exhale. It’s an eye roll Regina graces her with as she watches Swan hurrying towards the coat hooks. Hastily zipping herself up and burying her nose in a scarf. 

“Where are we going?” She asks as she pushes the door open and bumps into Naveen in the process. 

“Ladies!” He says, rubbing his eyes. “Have I gotten the day wrong?” 

“We’re changing strategy today,” Regina is aware of the smirks running up her lips. “Take the morning off.” 

“Ah, good. The band and I had quite a night last night. You would not believe.” Naveen breathes out in relief. “Have fun and perhaps try not to kill each other?”

At _that_ Swan snorts. Nervously. Uncharacteristically. Regina does not acknowledge it. In fact, she says nothing as they head towards the elevator. Nothing at all as she presses the button that will take them to the top floor. To the roof overlooking the steam and the busy street below. 

“Odd place if you’re trying to kill me.” She tells Regina as they settle against the brick ledge.“Someone could see and I think they would eventually-”

“I am only going to ask this once, Miss Swan,” She closes her eyes as the cold air awakens every nerve on her skin. “What is going on with you?”

There is surprise in her gaze. In the parted lips, she presses into a thin line. Her boots kick at the gravel and she looks up at the sky. Regina tries to decipher the look in her eye, as if something were lodged in her chest and had been waiting to be pulled out. 

“I’m not...I’m not you.” The words are on the verge of being swallowed by the sounds of the city below.

“That should have been--”

“Obvious, I know.” At least something of her usual defiance is back. “It’s just, you always get it right. Every time. It’s like you are incapable of screwing up a note. It’s fucking irritating.” 

Regina nods, she has never gotten praise that was this angry before. She finds that she should look away. Out of principle. Pride. 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do perfect take after perfect take,” Swan’s breath freezes with every exhale. “Not when the director--”

“Is an asshole?” She offers. 

“Yeah.” 

There are bags under her eyes. In the orange of the morning Sun her face seems thinner. Paler. For this particular moment Regina feels more than that smidge of sympathy growing larger. Mierda, and all the related curses. 

“It’s not about a perfect take every time,” She says, lifting up her chin. “It’s about being committed and never giving it anything less than your best. Making it work every time.” 

Regina thinks back to her Maggie the Cat. To the heaviness in her bones after each rehearsal, to those moments during her commute she uses to decompress. Cast that skin aside. Raw and exhausted. She would not have it any other way.

“What if my best isn’t good enough?” Her voice is so quiet that she can hardly believe it belongs to her. 

“Don’t be a coward. I will not tolerate it,” Regina tells her, suddenly determined. “And if you truly think that’s true then you’ll work until it _is_ good enough.” 

Her laugh comes unexpectedly. Her head thrown back and hands settling on her waist. Strands of blonde hair escape from her under her scarf. That smidge cannot grow any larger. Because it’s not as if she is invested in Emma Swan’s future beyond her contract. 

“Thanks.” It’s too sincere, more than Regina can bear from her. “Now what?” 

“We get to work.” Shifting her eyes away from her Regina clears her throat and sets the key. 

* * *

Four years ago a seven year old had thrown cake at her face. Confetti birthday cake. Emma was in some off brand costume making the best out of it because they had been expecting _Elsa_ not Elsa’s friend. Emma could only think how she’d need three washes to get the frosting out of her hair. But she laughed, practically sang a line about loving cake as much as she loved dancing. She thought that she could take things in stride then. Later the purple haired ladies would convince her there was nothing she could not work into her lines. Into her steps up on stage. No screaming seven year olds or rude seventy year olds could have prepared Emma for Regina Mills. Walking the streets of the meatpacking district with her at eight in the morning. Not at the fast pace she _never_ breaks to crossing streets without warning. All while singing. 

“Do not fall behind.” She warned her. “I will not wait for you to catch up.” 

“Wouldn’t expect you to.” Emma’s legs were already burning from her first run. 

There had been no explanation beyond that. Regina began as usual, warming their voices until she picked the key she wanted to use today. Shoulders straight and without a second thought. So much like every recording of her. 

“I don’t care about expensive things, cashmere coats, diamond rings…” She sang with perfect control. 

Emma was meant to fill the pause, keep the verse going. She could not even place the song. Instead she replied with the first words that came to mind. 

“Poor! All my life I’ve always been poor! I keep asking God what I’m for and He tells me gee I’m not sure!” 

If she was shocked Regina did not show it. She only blinked at Emma and answered with another line. Maybe it wasn’t what she meant but it’s what they’ve been doing for at least a mile and a half. Dodging early bird tourists, bikes and delivery guys. It’s the best Emma has felt since this whole thing began. Her chest hurts and she can barely catch her breath but in a good way. She follows Regina’s quick steps up an old train platform. It’s an open garden that is all browns and oranges in the winter Sun. Emma is trying to ignore how light gets lost in the dark of Regina’s hair. The _barely_ visible sheen of sweat on her neck. 

Some people walking past them give them funny looks at the borderline ridiculous lyrics they sing back and forth but Emma lost her sense of shame a while ago. Here she notices a few bits of Regina she hadn’t caught before. The sensible shoes, the bag that is too large to be logging around. How her chest rises and falls whenever there is a gust of wind. They walk past the stalls of fried empanadas and hot chocolate. Her mouth waters, still hating the egg replacement that had been on her menu today. Emma had eaten it whole and brushed her teeth vigorously after. She could _really_ go for something. It’s all she’s thinking about when she spots Regina heading towards a large bench. 

“I think a break is in order,” Her fingers touch at her throat and her voice is raspy. “Sit before you keel over.” 

“I’m fine.” Emma tells her, pretending her voice doesn’t come out exhausted. 

“Of course you are,” Regina raises her brow, that mocking smirk already on her lips. “You’re only salivating for food you can’t have and practically wheezing.” 

She rolls her eyes and joins her at the bench. A decent distance from Regina. Who pulls a thermos from her bag and three ziplock bags. Emma wraps a hand around her middle as she watches Regina pour tea into a plastic cup. How pathetic would it be to just sit here and pretend she isn’t starving? 

“Drink.” The cup gets pushed over to Emma’s side. “It’ll take care of that ache you’re feeling.” 

“I don’t have--”

A dark look counters her and Emma takes the cup between her hands. It’s warm and the tea is even warmer. It feels so good. Numbs and soothes all in one. Emma thinks orange and ginger. Nothing like Aurora’s wild experiments. It travels all the way to her stomach and produces a pleasant heat in her neck. 

“Uh, thanks.” She puts the cup down only to have it refilled. “For doing this. Think I needed it.” 

“No need to thank me, Miss Swan.” Regina spares her a glance. “It’s part of my job.” 

“Yeah, I know,” It feels a little like she just took a needle to a ballooning warmth in her chest. “Just terms and conditions.” 

A beat of silence passes, along with a cold rush of wind. Regina takes a bite out of what seems to be a homemade granola bar and followed by a sip of her tea. 

“You have to remember they are asking you to run a marathon,” She tells Emma, as if she might actually be interested. “Not big powerful sprints. However good you are at those.” 

A compliment. Emma could have missed it because it’d been buried under all those other words, because Regina had pressed her lips together. But it’s still a compliment. But she at least knows better than to point that out. Than to ruin whatever working truce they seem to have going on. Instead she curls her fingers around her sweats and sighs. Regina pushes her ziplock bags towards her. Real pathetic, then. That’s how she must look. 

“I’ve already had breakfast.” 

“Please,” Regina scoffs. “You’ve had a studio approved mockery of a meal. You could use the extra calories.” 

It’s so serious, so impossible to argue against that Emma really has no option than to take one of each of Regina’s offerings. Dried fruit and almonds. Bananas and apricots. And also falafel that is so smooth inside. 

“Oh my God.” Her body is too grateful to allow her to contain herself. “I’m not just saying that because I was starved.” 

“I know.” Ever the smug asshole. 

“You just carry this stuff around with you?” 

“My best friend is a dancer, she taught me how to prepare for a day full of rehearsal.” 

_Best friend._ Emma nods and wonders if this is a piece of information Regina had meant to volunteer. She keeps it all the same and tries to picture the woman who Regina Mills calls her best friend. What must that be like? To be one of the people she values, one of those people whose cheek she kisses. Emma hadn’t even thought these things when Regina had been an inch tall on her phone-screen. But now. With her sipping tea and rotating her ankles, it’s all she can think about. Who she might be when she is not around to see it. See her. 

Two more mornings are riddled with questions. Regina does not say much but once in a while she will say things like _better_ and _good_ when Emma can hold a note for as long she can. And Emma keeps trying to imagine who she must be outside of their time. She has never been shy about admitting it is a contract that keeps her doing this. Still. Maybe she hopes that Regina might actually not completely loathe the time she spends with her. It is such a stupid and small thing to want. Because walking the streets with Regina makes her feel at ease in her own skin. Her feet aren’t itching to run, pack a bag. Forget that tightness that sits on between her ribs. For the first time since Emma signed her name under all those contracts she feels _big._

The feeling does not translate well when she is rummaging through clothes on Thursday night. Emma has never been any good at matching different pieces to make new outfits. Everything she owns goes together by virtue of Emma having bought them. She isn’t so sure anymore. Mary Margaret told her to dress “cazh” for a laidback dinner. Nothing fancy. Whatever that means in a millionaire’s context. Quarter to eight and standing in her underwear Emma ultimately decides for a turtleneck she knows looks good under the one coat she owns.

It isn’t until she is sliding into the back of a black SUV that she realizes that she is underdressed and underperfumed. Mary Margaret might be wearing a cardigan but everything looks so pristine. So bright. The car smells like her vanilla perfume and has the unfortunate side-effect of pulling at Emma’s gut. 

“Sweetheart! It’s so great to see you!” Mary Margaret pulls her into a hug. “I know I said it would be just us tonight but Graham told me he was in town for a round of press and I couldn’t help myself!” 

Emma breaks away from Mary Margaret’s embrace to notice the man sitting across from them. She recognizes him from a thousand movie posters and those Facebook wine mom memes everyone makes fun of. Graham Humbert, the face of those fantasy romance movies. Even the books now have his face and bare chest on their covers. 

“Hi.” She says, having to bite her tongue. 

“Pleased to meet you, Emma. Heard loads about you.” He smiles politely at her. 

“All good things?”

“Of course.” His beard is just scruffy enough to make him look harmless, a knit sweater under a sports jacket. “We’re having fruit de la mer tonight. I twisted MM’s arm to go to Daniel’s. She was a doll about it, but isn’t she always?” 

“Oh, stop it. He is just too kind,” Mary Margaret says touching up her make-up. “He knows I can’t resist the truffle over brie they serve there.” 

“That sounds really great,” The smile on her lips feels stretched out. “Can’t wait.” 

There is a slight awkwardness in the air as they run into heavy traffic and it’s clear that Mary Margaret means for this evening to yield results. Romantic ones. She keeps the conversation going as best she can, trying to draw Graham’s attention to Emma. As they are seated at the Michelin-Starred restaurant that charges a whole month’s worth of rent for a bottle of wine, it dawns on her that Mary Margaret has missed a very important detail about him. Graham is gay. Just as much as Emma is. It’s the way he eyes a man from across the room. How he clears his throat to avoid looking at him but eventually finds him anyway. Clearly, he is uninterested in this set-up but had no good reason to turn it down. No workable excuse. 

“How are your sessions going with Regina?” Mary Margaret asks as oysters are brought to the table. 

“Good, I think.” It comes out with a deep exhale. “We’re still in one piece, so that’s something.”

Emma gets this feeling that the details of their time together shouldn’t be shared. Judging by the way Graham’s interest seems to be finally piqued. 

“Has she walked out on you?” She asks with a hand to her chest. “I remember right after...well, a few years ago when daddy asked her to help me with Cabaret, she straight up left the room. I was devastated.” 

“Uh no,” She replies, stunned at the revelation. “She hasn’t. Maybe she’s thought about it but--”

“You must have her respect, then.” Graham cuts in, taking a sip from his wine. “I remember she used to get so annoyed at me, sometimes I would not see her for days after I had ruined a scene. Even if it was just early rehearsal.” 

“Oh, jeez. I forget you two used to date.” It doesn’t come off as malicious. Mary Margaret doesn’t have that in her but it is not kind either. 

“If that is the right word for it.” Graham smiles and chucks back an oyster. “She was a good friend is all.” 

The words make her heart stop. It doesn’t take much for understanding to dawn on her, what must have happened between them. When Regina is out and Graham is the face of a Hollywood franchise. He looks at Emma, like he has just guessed the very same thing about her. There is a nervousness in his eyes. To not be given away. She imagines them together. Walking hand in hand, each other’s shield. Until they weren’t. 

“What was it you used to call her back then?” Mary Margaret says so sweetly. Genuinely curious as she sprinkles salt over an oyster. 

“Your Majesty,” He says with a laugh. “But only when she was cross.” 

There is something like a giggle coming from Mary Margaret. This moment feels like she has left her body. Like if she were standing outside the window. Feeling so small again. Looking in at this table, watching herself having dinner with two people from another world. Her body chews. Eats and drinks but she is still out on the pavement. Thinking how odd she looks in her jeans at a French restaurant. That expensive wine only tastes expensive. 

When they are going out the door flashing cameras make sure Emma stays out of her body. She thinks her skin would feel too big on her. That her feet would begin to itch if she were to return. There are some six paparazzi clicking away at the three of them and Mary Margaret’s bodyguard only shields her from them. 

“Graham!” One of the calls out as he follows their path to the car. “How was dinner?” 

“Excellent.” He says with a practiced wave. “You and your mates should try it some time.”

“Is she a friend, Graham?” A camera practically blinds her.

“You could say that.” He laughs and has his hand hover on the small of her back. “Bye now.” 

“What’s your name, beautiful?” They ask as the car door closes and Emma is busy rubbing her palms together. Trying to bat away the numbness spreading through her face. 

“You OK, sweetie?” She hears Mary Margaret ask as she squeezes her hand. “You look like you saw a ghost.” 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Emma replies, wishing her throat ached from singing out in the cold.

* * *

Henry had a nightmare. He woke up in the middle of the night and cried as he crawled into her bed. It had something to do with fire and monsters. It’s why Regina had been up to read that notification from her Google feed. She had clicked on the damn TMZ headline half asleep, with Henry kicking at the sheets. 

**SONG OF WOLVES GRAHAM HUMBERT OUT WITH NEW LEADING LADY**

Her whole skin went cold. It’s as if two worlds were colliding. Regina started sweating through her nightshirt and decided it was best to go sit on the sofa. With plenty of light and with the gentle hum of the television. Thursday’s rehearsal of Cat had already left her drained. The entrapment of the mood eating away at her. The scene was much too familiar to her. It’s the work, it’s the job. To feel both Maggie and Brick under her skin. To instinctively know what it is like to be caged. The mendacity of the whole damn ordeal. She had not expected to be confronted with her past. 

They had run into each other at a club in Soho back in the day. When the odds of Graham becoming more than a model had seen slim. There were scene partners in some production no one but Regina had faith in. They had ended up on some fire escape, sharing a joint and a drink. Coming up with an idea. They both needed to play it straight if they were ever going to get anywhere. Regina hadn’t wanted to talk about her mother. About the complexities of her life. So she had agreed. They were on each other’s arm at parties and at red-carpets when they were picking up traction. Until they weren’t. When Regina unilaterally decided to break that facade. He did not forgive her. Neither did he understand her. Regina had not forgiven or forgotten his silence. The subtle laughs when asked about his supposed ex-girlfriend. 

The photo was poorly taken. It made her insides twist but Regina could not stop looking at it. Swan’s blonde hair over a dark coat. Light reflecting over her eyes. She thought. She doesn’t know what she thought about her. What she was beginning to feel these past few mornings. Old feelings began mixing in with the new. An explosive mix she could not fully describe but kept her awake all the same. Curses stringing themselves together with angry thoughts and losing control over them. 

The alarm on her phone went off as she sat there, flexing her fingers. Six in the morning. Two hours before she was set to meet Swan on 79th to exercise all the way to the reservoir. And she tried. Tried to let go of everything irrational as she got ready for the day. As she shaved the ginger into her tea. Packed her extra socks and wrapped her food. It did not work. 

Regina rubs her hands over her arms as she catches sight of Swan at the end of the block. Where the park begins and the city seems to recede from them. But Cat’s claustrophobia floods her senses all over again. The fresh air does nothing to remind her that it has been years since she was last trapped. It’s as if she has not decompressed at all. Old. New. Fictional. It all threatens to become a tangled mess this morning. She jogs on and takes one deep breath. 

“Hey.” Swan greets her with a tentative smile. Unaware she has caused time to bleed onto itself. 

“Have you warmed up?” Regina replies, her voice becoming cutting. 

“I..I thought we could do it together. That’s been working so far.” 

“Fine.” She walks past her and picks a key.

It doesn’t take long before she feels the cold seeping into her mouth. Scratching at her throat. She only knows to pick up the pace. Regina sees Swan missing a beat or two. If she had been patient before, if she had allowed her to catch up for this week, that goodwill seems to be gone. Like a compulsion. Her pitch climbs all by itself, just as her feet pick more difficult paths. Perhaps that would stop the thoughts. _Puta._

“Regina?” Swan breaks her thoughts. “Wait--”

“ _What_?”

“Can we pause?” The dark in her eyes is bigger. “I need a sec.” 

“I don’t think so.” She tells her even if she aches all over. “If you’re struggling push through it.” 

“Like you are doing?” Her expression shifts to something harder. The green around the dark becomes brighter and the corner of Swan’s lips twitch. 

Regina only knows to scowl at her and keep moving. Not caring if she follows or not. The anger steadily simmering away in her mind.

“Hey, hey!” She calls out so crassly that for a moment these Eliza lessons seem pointless. “Want to tell me what your deal is today?” 

“My deal?” 

“Or whatever the hell got you into this mood.” Swan crosses her arms and plants her feet on the ground. As if that is supposed to add finality to her words. As if she has any authority. 

That simmering anger burns into a boil when Regina’s eyes lock with hers. She can only see the photo that kept her awake. How different she looked in it. How an illogical fury had curled in her chest at the thought of Emma Swan belonging to that world. The one that had wanted to chew her up and spit out her bones. 

“Not all of us get to kick back mid-week with some Hollywood A-listers,” She doesn’t care about measuring her words. “Let ourselves be paraded around for celebrity.” 

“That’s what this is about? You have to be kidding me,” She says with her jaw tightening up. “You’re upset I had dinner with your--”

“With my what, Miss Swan?” It’s a sharp edge, the one they’re standing on. “Is there a particular word you might be looking for?”

“No. No word.” A shake to head and a deep sigh follows. “But I don’t see how it’s any of your business who I have dinner with, Your Majesty.” 

“What did you just call me?” 

Her mind had gone and created circles and spirals for her. Obstacles that would make her thoughts trip and sink into obsession. But this use of her old nickname. The evidence of gossip over appetizers. So clearly weaponized gives all the excuse Regina needs. Especially when the other woman only stares at her with her arms crossed. Looking so expectant.

“Disabuse yourself of the notion that I am interested in anything you do,” Regina tells her as harshly as she can manage. “I might have guessed you would always go back to your ilk. Image-obsessed entitled vacuous--”

“Fuck, do you ever hear yourself talk?” Her eyes suddenly seem so frail. Like Regina had just dealt her a blow. “You know, I let you believe whatever you wanted to before because I thought. I thought it wouldn't matter eventually. And then you started acting like a _person_ for a few days and fooled me. What an idiot I was. You want to know where Mary Margaret found me?” 

Perhaps it’s the cold. That makes Swan red in the face. The winter light that gives her that coloring. Regina knows it isn’t and her heart is beating too fast to tear her eyes away. 

“It was at a dinner-and-show, I worked my ass off that night for tips. And I know you think that’s beneath you and that you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. That maybe I should have never left. And you’re probably right. That would have spared me the pain of having to deal with you.” 

Regina is stunned into silence. Her whole face feels hot with shame. Hearing the subtle shake of Emma Swan’s voice. It’s worse still when the woman takes two steps away from her and she feels the need to take her hand. Instead she only takes one step forward and tries to reach out to her.

“Wait, I’m--”

“No. I’m not doing this,” She says pinching her eyes shut for a second. “You can have the rest of the morning. I don’t care...I just need to get away from you.” 

The wind turns colder as Regina watches her go. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give them time! They're hard headed! Thank you all for reading, I would love to hear what you think!


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